Young Man With a Horn
by Canadian Hogan's Fan
Summary: Carter is thrilled when he receives a gift from his sister Betty. He never imagine how far a small kindness could go. Continuation of I'll Be Seeing You.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I recommend anyone who hasn't read my first story, I'll Be Seeing You, to read it before this one, as this is a continuation. Many thanks to Sgt. Moffit and BJ for starting me thinking about the other side of the story.

Also, I don't own any of the Hogan's Heroes characters, but I claim ownership to Mitch Harmon. One historical detail have been changed to fit the story's timeline.

_Stalag 13, Germany _

_1943_

Sometimes being a prisoner stinks, Carter thought, opening Barrack 2's door. _There's_ _No decent food most of the time, no privacy and not much to do when Colonel Hogan doesn't need me to whip up some explosives. A man can only stand so much._

He smiled. The sun greeting him on the other side felt good on his freshly shaved cheeks. _At least one thing's gone right today. I would've gone crazy if it'd been cloudy again._

"Afternoon, Carter," the stout sergeant of the guard said, his boots crunching on the gravel underneath. Apparently the sun had done him good as well; he'd been short tempered the last week.

Carter waved. "Afternoon, Schultz."

Schultz stopped and pointed to the American's jacket. "What have you got in your pocket?"

Carter looked down. "Nothing. No candy bars or anything."

"Then why did you put your hand in there as soon as you saw me?"

Carter laughed. "Did I? I never noticed. Nervous habit, I guess."

Schultz's eyes widened. "What's there to be nervous about?" He closed his eyes and flinched. "Never mind. Don't tell me. I see nothing, I know nothing."

Carter walked away. "Bye, Schultz. Enjoy the weather." Good, he thought. He _did _have something in his pocket, and the sooner he got to the Rec Hall, the better he'd feel about it.

Thankfully, the other prisoners, who decided to take advantage of the warmer temperature, were too engrossed in a volleyball game to pay him much attention.

"Carter!" Newkirk called. "Get your backside over here. We need another hitter."

"Hey!" LeBeau shouted. "I'm doing the best I can!"

Newkirk turned to the Frenchmen. "I know, but your too bloomin' short to do much!"

Carter shook his head and walked away. "No thanks. Maybe later."

The Englishman shrugged. "Okay, then. Hurry back!"

The game resumed, and, judging by the cheers on the other side of the net, the men of Barrack 8 had successfully deflected Lebeau's offense. For a moment, Carter almost regretted turning Newkirk down. He probably needed the help.

_Hurry up. You're almost there. _

He crossed the compound, gripping his pocket's contents. _Not too hard. You're crushing them._ He relaxed his grip at the thought. They were beat up enough already without him making them worse.

Carter sighed in relief as he approached the hall. _So far so good. _He opened the door and peaked in the empty room. _Everybody must be playing outside._

He closed the door behind him and, checking the windows to make sure no one had followed him, headed for the record player and the record stacks beside it.

_Where is it?_

Carter sorted through the pile until he found one on the bottom. He tsked as he held it up and ran his finger over the scratches in the grooves. _Who's been playing these records, a cat? Boy, if I catch the guy who did this, I'll break his neck._

He set the record on the player and turned it on, keeping his fingers crossed it wouldn't skip. The sweet, mournful melody that poured out from it rewarded him.

He wiped his eyes as he let the notes from the lead trumpet player lift his soul. _Sleepy Lagoon _by Harry James. What was it about that song that always did it for him? It made him a little happy when he was sad and vice versa. He tried to play it once on a trumpet he'd found lying around the Rec Hall at the base where he completed basic training. Even though he wasn't a bad player, he couldn't match James's tone.

He closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, erasing the homesickness that had been plaguing him lately._ I miss you, Mom, Dad, Betty._

_Betty. Boy, I _really _miss you. I still haven't thanked you in person for what you did for me._

Carter frowned, tilting his head. _What the heck's that noise? It sounds like someone sniffling._

He opened his eyes and looked around. The sound wasn't coming from the record. It was human—an American airman, crying in a corner on the other side of the room. "Hi," Carter said. "What's your name?"

The kid looked up in horror and tried to hide his red eyes. "Harmon. Mitch Harmon."

"I'm Andrew Carter. How long have you been here?"

He wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve. "A few weeks."

"Why haven't I seen you before?"

He shrugged. "Oh, I spend most of my time here, trying to forget I'm in Germany instead of Albany. I miss it so much."

Carter motioned to him. "I know what you mean. You like Harry James?"

Harmon nodded. "I saw him in '39 when he did a show at our base."

Carter shook his head. "Boy, I envy you. I wanted to see him when he was in Indianapolis in '41, but I had to work."

"You sure missed a show. He was wonderful." The airman looked down. "I saw my true love for the first time that night."

Carter's eyebrows rose. "Oh yeah? What's her name?"

"Connie Haines.*"

The sergeant laughed, flipping the record over and setting the needle on it. "C'mon over here Mitch. I wanna show you something. It's a secret, so you have to promise not to tell anyone. I'd hate to think what some of the guys might do if they knew I had these."

Harmon moved toward him. "I won't, I swear."

"Okay." Carter reached into his pocket and set a handful of wrinkled papers on the floor. "Take a look."

The kid frowned. "Cigarette wrappers, music programs, napkins, scraps of paper. What are all these?"

"They're signed."

Harmon flipped a program over and gasped. "Oh my god. Harry James! How did you get these?"

"My sister's a waitress at the all-night dinner back home. One night, she met this guy." He flipped over a piece of notebook paper. "Johnny Velvet. She told him all about me and he got the band to send me their autographs while I was in basic training." Carter beamed. "Gee, I just about died when I got her letter. I ended up pulling guard duty all that weekend because I couldn't stop yelling and jumping up and down.

"Anyway, I haven't let these out of my sight since. I took them with me on every mission I ever flew. I'm glad I did because whenever this place starts getting me down, I pull them out and look at them. They always make me feel better."

Harmon managed a small laugh. "I tried to get their autographs too, but they left before I had a chance to ask,.." The rest of his sentence trailed off as he flipped a matchbook open and ran his thumb over the signature.

_XOXO, Connie Haines_.

Carter looked at the airman and his lips quivered, and pushed the pile of paper toward him. "Here, take them."

The kid's eyes widened. "What?"

"I mean it. You'd really be doing me a favor. I don't need them anymore."

"I can't," Harmon stuttered, pushing them away. "You said they make you feel better whenever you're down."

He pushed them back. "Well, I've got a theory. Johnny made my sister happy by singing to her when they met, and both of them made me happy by sending me these autographs. I think it's my turn to make someone else happy."

"But, won't your sister be mad if you give them away?"

The sergeant waved the idea away. "Nah. Betty's a pretty sweet gal. She'll understand. Besides, it's not like I lost them or threw them away."

Harmon grinned, so widely Carter was afraid he'd strain something. "Thank you so much!"

"You're welcome. Just make sure you don't tell the guys you've got these. It's not that I don't trust them, because I'd trust them with my life, but things like this can do funny things to people. I'm not sure they'd treat them with the respect they deserve."

The airman grabbed his hand. "I promise I'll guard them with my life. You've made me so happy, sergeant; I'll never forget you for this. How can I ever pay you back?"

Carter stood up and clapped the kid's back. "Forget it." He opened the door and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey fellas! Got any room for a hitter?"

_* Connie Haines was a one-time singer with the Harry James Orchestra. James let her go in 1940 due to his financial troubles. Like fellow former James singer Frank Sinatra, Haines then joined the Tommy Dorsey band before appearing in films and on radio._


	2. Chapter 2

_Muncie, Indiana, _

_1970_

Carter grabbed the arms of his rocking chair, grateful to have the support as he sat down. Even though this was the warmest day he'd seen in weeks, his joints had still swollen up like balloons. He'd barely gotten out of bed on his own, much less made it downstairs to the front porch.

"Hi, Mr. Carter," the mailman called, opening the gate to the yard. "How are you today?"

Carter managed a weak smile, trying to ignore the man's ever-expanding mass of frizzy hair. _My parents would have shaved my head if I'd gone out of the house looking like that. _"Morning, Isaac. I'm just peachy, or as peachy as you can be when your body's telling you you're old."

The mail carrier frowned, his tanned nose wrinkling. "How can that be? You don't look a day over 30."

"You're a bad liar. I've spent too much time working in the heat, cold, rain and snow to look or feel young anymore. I'm surprised I don't look more like a prune than I already do." Carter held out a hand. "Got anything interesting for me today?"

He rummaged through his bag. "Yeah. A package from New York."

Carter frowned. "New York? I don't know anybody there."

"Well, it's got your name on it." He handed over a large brown envelope and started down the steps. "Hope it's good news, whatever it is."

Carter thanked him and tore at the envelope with his sore fingers. "Blasted arthritis."

A smaller envelope fell into his lap, which wasn't sealed, mercifully. He removed the paper inside of it and unfolded it over his knee.

OOO

Dear Mr. Carter,

My name is Alicia Reynolds. That name probably means nothing to you, but I hope this one does: Mitch Harmon. He was my father.

Dad died a few months ago. He hadn't been well for a couple of years, so it wasn't unexpected. The ceremony was simple. We played his favourite song, Sleepy Lagoon, when it was over. I think Dad would have approved.

Anyway, before he died, Dad asked me to return some autographs from the Harry James band to you. I begged him not to ask me to do it (please don't judge me too harshly. I love Harry James too) but he insisted. He said you made him the happiest man in Germany by giving them to him when you were POWs and it was time they went back to where they belonged. I found them in a corner of his desk when I was helping Mom clean out the house a month ago. I hope they're all here.

I'm sorry it's taken so long to send them to you. I had to ask Dad's friends at the Legion to help me track you down. Plus, I've had a few moments, if you know what I mean. It hasn't been an easy few months. It felt so strange going through Dad's things— deciding what to keep and what to throw away, as if none of it ever had any meaning. I kept expecting him to pop up in a doorway and yell at me for invading his privacy. Now, in some ways, it's like he was never there. Is this all a person leaves behind when they die? Is there nothing else to prove you existed other than a few pictures, letters and clothes? Will it be this hard for my children when they do the same thing for me?

But that's enough of my rambling. Again, sorry for the delay. I hope you understand.

Warmest regards,

Alicia (Harmon) Reynolds

OOO

Carter looked up, suddenly aware of the familiar melody softly coaxing its way into his ears.

Must've left the radio in the kitchen on, he thought. That's Sleepy Lagoon. Huh. I haven't heard that recording in at least 25 years.

He leaned back in his chair and allowed a small smile to form on his lips as the music enveloped him in comfort once again.


End file.
